


Two and two makes four

by Naicele



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, M/M, POV Sheriff Stilinski, Romance, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 02:23:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6885340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naicele/pseuds/Naicele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The five times the Sheriff suspected something and that time he put two and two together. One of those 5+1 fics told from the Sheriff’s perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two and two makes four

1

 

The first time the Sheriff suspects something is going on is the day Stiles is clearly hiding something, or someone, in his room.

He has just returned home after an early morning shift at the station. When he walks inside, throwing his keys down in the blue glazed bowl by the door, he shouts a greeting, head angled towards the top floor; but his son doesn’t answer. Hardly uncommon; whenever Stiles gets deeply involved in something he tends to lose awareness of the world around him.

He knows that today is a special day for his son. The big game is tonight.

He absently flicks through the mail, mostly junk and contemplates running some errands in town, there is still some time before he has to change and leave for the field.

He places the mail on the kitchen counter and takes the steps up two at a time and shouts for Stiles again. He can hear his son reply something illegible from his room, so he knows he has heard him.

As he reaches the landing on top of the stairs he starts to push the door to his son’s bedroom open but Stiles all but throws himself into the doorway, arms and gangly legs sprawled in all directions seemingly to take up as much space as possible.

The Sheriff takes a half step back at the sudden burst of movement.

“Eh,” he starts, “So listen son, I got some things I gotta take care of, but I’m going to be there tonight,” His chest feels warm when he thinks about it.

“Your first game,” he continues, smiling broadly as Stiles just stares at him.

This should be Stiles's big day, playing for the lacrosse team has been one of his son’s big dreams. He knows, because Stiles has talked about it, a lot.

Although, when he thinks about it, it has been a few weeks now since Stiles had gone on any extended rants about it.

Stiles just looks shiftily around, eyes not settling on anything. Whenever his son refuses to look him in the eyes, he knows something is up.

“Yeah, my first game, god that is great, awesome, good,” Stiles’s voice trails of aimlessly.

“I am very happy for you, and I am very proud of you,” the Sheriff adds a bit confused.

After that their conversation trails off while his son keeps insisting he is proud of himself too while it is clear that his mind is a million miles away.

Children always seem to think that they can hide things for their parents. Yet, when you have spent almost seventeen years looking after them, you can spot many of their tricks a mile off. Not all, a lot of things can still take you by surprise, but most things.

Stiles's embarrassment and unwillingness to let his father into his bedroom signals loud and clear that he is hiding something in there. Something he is either embarrassed about, or someone he is afraid that the Sheriff will embarrass him to.

Knowing Stiles, it is probably both.

The Sheriff leaves his son to his secrets and walks back down to make himself a cup of coffee. The errands can wait until another day.

When, a little while later, he sees Derek Hale slink around the corner of their house and out on to the street his coffee goes abruptly and violently down the wrong way and he spends the next five minutes trying to cough his lungs up.

Stiles eventually shouts down the stairs, wondering if the old man is fine or if he needs to come down and do a Heimlich.

The Sheriff manages to croak out that he can manage. He is not sure he could face Stiles right now, he needs a moment alone to gather his thoughts. He is still glad he put his kid through all of those first aid courses, because you never know; but he thinks he will live.

Once he can breathe again, and his eyes has stopped running he pours himself a god two fingers of whiskey. He settles down at the kitchen table and promptly forgets his drink as he tries to get his head around exactly what sort of bad behavior Derek, bloody, Hale could get his only son into. Especially since Stiles is fully capable on his own to end up in all sorts of mischief.

If it is something his son doesn’t need, it is help in the seeking out trouble department. Particularly since that fateful day when Stiles had skipped home from school, eyes huge and shining in his face as he told his parents all about his new best friend Scott.

The boys had been thick as thieves ever since, trouble following them around. Like that time they had blown up Ms. Andersson’s garden gnome with fireworks he himself had hidden at a, he thought, child safe height in the garage.

Or that time they had painted The Holloway’s fence using their crayons. The kids had only been trying to help by making it pretty, but the Holloways had not been swayed by that argument. It had ended with him having to spend a weekend scraping off rainbow colored wax and painting the fence white again. It had been impossible to be angry.

The Sheriff had to admit though, that even if they did get into a lot of trouble together, they were also always there for one another. He could not have wished for a better friend for his son.

However, when it comes to this Hale kid, the jury is still out if the trouble might be worth it.

 

 

2

 

The second time he is in the little hairdresser downtown listening to Maria, the owner, telling him about missing hair clippings and shop items being out of place in the mornings. She tries really hard not to say the word pixie to an officer of the law, but everything in her story screams of old childhood tales.

Besides, nothing is actually missing, rather it seems like her mysterious nightly visitors actually clean, rather than steal and vandalize. Which is why he is, perhaps, not paying as much attention to her story as he should. Instead he is glancing out the window at the people ambling by enjoying the spring sun.

Through the painted store front he sees a black Camaro pull up to a free curb spot. The car has tainted windows and for some reason it raises the hairs at the back of his neck. He thinks that only a criminal or someone trying really hard to impress people and failing would drive a car like that.

He almost drops his notepad, which he had been pretending to scribble in, when he sees his son get out of the passenger seat.

Stiles half stumbles out the car, dragging his backpack after him. His son’s face is flushed with excitement and he flails around as he gets his bearings. The car takes off almost instantly, burning rubber as it screeches away and around a corner.

Stiles doesn’t move from the sidewalk straight away. He keeps still, bag dangling forgotten from his left hand. He looks somewhere between awkward and eager, a hand rubbing the back of his head as he looks to where neither the car nor its driver can be seen anymore.

His son stands there for a while, before he seems to pull himself together with a shrug. He slings the backpack across his shoulder and walks briskly away down the street.

He knows his son well, perhaps too well, a consequence of living alone together just the two of them for a lot of years. Even though Stiles is walking away from him, he can see the smile on his son’s face in the way he holds his back.

The Sheriff doesn’t go after him, instead he finishes listening to Maria’s complaint about tiny footprints, while he is actually writing down the license plate number of a certain Camaro.

He is not sure if it his Sheriff senses or his dad senses that are tingling; but there is something going on here.

 

When he runs it back at the station it comes back as registered to a Derek, god damn it, Hale.

He leans back in his chair, rubbing a tired hand across his face while he stares at the flickering computer screen.

He thinks that he should be worried about this, about his son spending time with someone he has himself arrested for murder.

He is indeed worried, but also a bit stumped. He is really not sure what to do about it; forbidding Stiles to do something is like telling his son that the world will end if he doesn’t do exactly that, as much as he possibly can, and indeed as soon as possible.

He really learnt that lesson the hard way.

Although, he has to admit, the Hale kid did go free and the Sheriff feels pretty sure that he didn’t actually murder his sister. For some reason it never sat right with him. Although it was a lot of things with that case that never made sense, like Stiles being way too interested in it. His son had just kept appearing in places where he shouldn’t be.

All in all, he is missing something here. And, yes, Derek, darn it, Hale might have been innocent of murder, but that does not mean that he approves of his son’s new friend.

In the end he has no idea what to do about it so he gives up and goes to grab a cup of stale office coffee. Hopefully someone will phone in with a crime that will take his mind off all of this.

 

 

3

 

The third time is a lazy Saturday afternoon, he is sitting on the porch drinking ice tea and simply enjoying the peace and quiet when Stiles drops down in the chair beside him.

His son stretches his legs out in front of him, so long nowadays. He might even end up taller than his old man if he keeps this up. He will be seventeen before too long though so maybe he has finished growing.

Stiles doesn’t say anything at first, but he is jumpier that usual, which says something. The Sheriff just waits him out; he will get to it eventually.

“So say hypothetically, that someone kisses someone else but then tells them that it was a mistake.” His son stares intently at his own feet as if the worn laces are the most fascinating thing in the world. He continues, “So what would that mean, like really?”

The Sheriff takes a sip of his tea, the ice cubes are slowly melting, diluting the sweetness but leaving the bitter aftertaste of tea on his tongue.

He asks carefully, “So I guess that depends on what type of kiss it was. Did the person stumble and accidentally kiss this hypothetical person on the cheek for example?” He deeply wishes for the cheek, but then his wishes seldom come through.

He can see Stiles’s face go beet red in the corner of his eyes, clearly confirming that this hypothetical case is in fact very much real and experienced.

“No it was eh full on with you know open mouths and hands in hair and pressing close and you know lasting for quite a bit, and tongues and…” his son trails of realizing that he left the theoretical situation way behind with that overly detailed description. “Or you know, something like that,” he finishes lamely.

The Sheriff tries to hide his scowl down his glass and stalls for a moment while he gathers himself. He should be pleased he thinks, that Stiles is getting there, he is old enough to be kissing after all. He repeats this to himself a few times before he feels like he can answer.

“Ok, so in that case we can safely assume that the kiss in itself is not the problem but the circumstances.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles asks, back straightening as he leans in to listen more closely.

“Well, for example, maybe one of the two persons has a boyfriend already,” he says and thinks of that girl in Stiles's school; Lydia. He has had to listen, many,many times, about some jock who was dating the girl of his dreams.

Stiles’s bottom lip is between his teeth, and he his wearing a thoughtful expression.

“So say that there were no other boyfriend, what then?”

So not Lydia then, the Sheriff thinks. He is glad that his son is moving on, that had always been a hopeless case. She has been way too smart for him, even though he doesn’t know if his son ever saw past the flowing hair to the no nonsense girl behind the curls.

 “Well, maybe there was some other reason why they shouldn’t be kissing,” he says.

“Could it not just have been because the kiss was bad?” Stiles asks and the Sheriff can tell that the question is the one he has wanted to ask from the start by the nonchalant way he tries to pose it.

“Son, believe me when I say that it is almost impossible to be bad at kissing, at least if you really want it. When it comes to things like that, if both parties are willing and enthusiastic then all that is required is a bit of mutual listening to each other and it is basically impossible to go wrong", he says.

“Really?” his son says doubtfully.

“As long as you pay attention to the one you are kissing and how they react then you will be fine.

I have kissed a few women in my days, so I have some experience in this department.”

“Dad!” Stiles squirms in his seat, “totally gross and TMI.”

The Sheriff almost chokes on his ice tea, he is _not_ the one oversharing right now. He does not say anything though, because he is secretly very, very pleased that his son trusts him enough to come to him with questions like this.

They sit in silence as his son disappears into his own mind, foot tapping patterns on the wooden boards and his constantly restless fingers pick at a loose thread in his jeans.

It is a nice afternoon the Sheriff thinks, the two Stilinski men enjoying the last of the summer warmth in companionable silence.

 

 

4

 

The fourth time is weeks later and any left over heat  has long since left the air.

It is late in the evening and Stiles is at Scott’s, spending the night. The Sheriff is walking around the house, gathering up dirty washing and putting it in a basket he carries on his hip.

A CD is playing downstairs and all in all he is enjoying the downtime. No serious murders at the moment, and his son has not put his feet into any serious trouble lately.

He has gotten to Stiles room and is down on his knees trying to fish out a sock that is hiding under the bed when he accidentally kicks the desk behind him.  A big pile of school books unceremoniously topples over and crashes down onto the floor.

He swears to himself as he gets up to collect the books and put them back. As he is about to plop them down on the table, he accidentally glimpses a polaroid that had been hiding under a book on economics. He recognizes the back, it has been taken at the station, the small print says Beacon Hills Sheriff Station.

He turns it over without thinking, old habits and all that. He has to sit down on the edge of his son’s bed while he rests the pile of books on his knee as he takes in the photo.

It is a mug shot, like he thought. He is surprised though when he sees Derek, stupid, Hale staring back at him. Or not staring, his eyes are closed. The photo must have been discarded at the station. He has no idea how Stiles has gotten hold of it.

He runs a finger along the edge, the corners are worn and fraying slightly; like the photo has been handled a lot.

In the end he puts it back where he found it, hidden under the school books.

 

Later that evening he is sitting in front of the TV, not watching some stupid tattoo show that is on in the background while he slowly drinks a beer. He can’t seem to let the thing go.

He knows that what he should be focusing on is where Stiles has gotten the photo, and more importantly why he has kept it? It is months since he arrested the Hale kid. Yet the picture is still on his son’s desk.

While he knows, that this is what he should be thinking about, it is not what is keeping him from enjoying a silent and relaxing night at home.

Instead he is thinking about the first time he met the boy. After all, he remembers Derek Hale too well from that particular night years earlier.

Derek had been slimmer then, young and not as hard or broad shouldered.  He had been shivering inside a heat blanket in the back of an ambulance. His sister sitting limp beside him, shoulders pressed together like they both needed the physical reassurance that someone, anyone, was still there.

That kid had tried so hard not to cry in front of him or any of the other adults, but to no avail. Big wet drops had rolled down his cheeks as he, not yet the Sheriff, tried to figure out anything to say that could comfort these two lost children who had suddenly and so brutally lost everything.

None of his normal platitudes had seemed to cut it. In the end he had just put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, squeezed, and left the siblings to each other.

The image of the ruined house and smell of wet charcoal still haunts him sometimes, along with a dozen other particularly cruel crime scenes. Most of them involve children, they are his weak spot.

It had not been like that before he became a father himself.

After the first time he had held that pink screaming bundle in his arms, everything had changed. Or who knows, maybe it had been when he held his hand on wife’s stomach and felt that first kick, still weak but clearly there under his palm. His heart had melted and since then all children seemed to induce in him this intense need to protect them. His father instincts Claudia used to call it while she smiled fondly and kissed him.

He sighs and turns the TV off, sitting still in the suddenly dark and quiet room.

He should be focusing on the obviously not entirely good man Derek Hale has become. But every time he thinks about the Hale boy he can’t help but see that scared child in the back of the ambulance.

 

 

5

 

The fifth time is when he finds a crumpled up Valentine’s card in the trash, on the evening of Valentine’s day. As he soothes it out and opens it, it is full of half scribbled greetings like Hi, Hello and What’s up; all in Stiles straggly handwriting.

Dinner is just about ready and he is pondering the meaning of this as Stiles himself tumbles into the kitchen. He can see his son freeze in the middle of the floor as he realizes what his father is holding.

He decides a direct approach is best, “Changed your mind?” he asks holding up the discarded card.

Stiles looks wildly around him, like he is considering running for it.

The Sheriff can practically see the moment when he gives up on the thought, his shoulders sagging slightly as he drops down in his chair by the table and starts to load up food.

“It was a stupid idea anyway,” he mumbled while squeezing ketchup all over his pasta.

He watches his son closely as he sits down and helps himself to some food. Stiles looks embarrassed, of course, but also a bit lost.

The Sheriff eats for a while as he tries to give himself time to think about how best to proceed with this, obviously delicate, business.

“I don’t think it’s stupid to show people you care for them,” he starts, “Quite the opposite, it is brave. Especially if you are not sure what they think about you,” he adds, because he knows his son.

“It’s too late now anyway,” Stiles replies morosely as he stabs a meatball to death.

“Well, why don’t you just send a message on your phone or on one of those app things you young people use. I thought paper communication was out in your generation anyway?”

Stiles shakes his head around a mouthful and swallows without really chewing.

He doesn’t tell his son to chew his food properly, but he has to actively fight that instinct, because obviously Stiles has other things on his mind right now.

“It is more you anyway. Texting I mean,” he says.

Stiles puts his head to the side, like he does when he is thinking intensely, a finger tap tapping rapidly on the table. Then he shines up, nodding furiously to himself, determination settling on his face as he pulls his phone out, even though he is not supposed to when they are eating. The Sheriff decides to let it slide this time.

He can see his son falter though, fingers hovering over the buttons.

“What should I write?”

Yeah what do kids write on Valentine’s day cards nowadays? He has no idea.

“Well, Happy Valentine’s, was always a classic in my day”, he says lacking any better suggestions.

Stiles snorts and then chuckles under his breath as he types in something much longer and presses send. He throws the phone down immediately after; like he is afraid it will bite him.

It takes less than a minute for Stiles's phone to make an annoying chirping sound, the vibrating function making it slide precariously towards the edge of the table. They are finished with their food by then so the Sheriff starts to clear the table and allows his son to check his phone.

He very carefully does not ask, even though his entire being itches for it. Years of being an officer of the law is just begging him to push Stiles down on a chair, shine a very bright light in his face and force him to spill everything.

When he looks back at his son, hunched over in a way that is going to give him neck problems before he is 20, he looks so ridiculously happy though, that he can’t bear to ruin it with his questions.

He does the dishes instead, perhaps a bit more forcefully than necessary.

Stiles even lets him pick a movie that night, no sign of protest when he puts on an old western classic.

He glances at his son out of the corner of his eye as he keeps waiting for the flood of protests to come, but Stiles just watches the movie, seemingly enjoying it even. A big grin on his face the entire time.

After two hours of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance kid, and all the while Stiles doesn’t say a word about the film being old, slow, or stupid. He knows then that something major is up.

As he lies in bed that night, unable to sleep he wishes Stiles mother was still around to help him with things like this. While he is happy Stiles is happy the thought still makes him infinitely sad.

 

 

2+2=4

 

The final time, he is on his way home from the station. It is late, as always, sometimes he thinks he should get another job, with shorter hours. But who would protect the citizens of Beacon Hills then?

He tries to phone Stiles, but gives up on the third try, obviously his son has better things to do than talk to his father.

As he throws the headset down, he spots an illegally parked car down a small country lane. Technically he is off duty now, but he is still in his work car and it would be immoral to just leave it.

He sighs as turns in behind the other car. It seems he will be home even later tonight than he thought.

He pull the parking brake and opens the door to the chilly night air. As soon as he gets out and sees which car it is he already knows what he is going to find; long before he approaches it.

The black Camaro has its engine turned off and no light is on inside. It is a clear night though, the moon half full and giving enough light to see by. He grabs his flash light anyway, more so that he has something to hold on to.

He guess it is slightly his own fault, he should have gotten this way earlier, it is not like there haven’t been some pretty obvious clues. It is actually in his job description to piece stories together from limited information, but he had wanted to be sure in this case, not jump to conclusions.

He is pretty sure now though.

He walks up to the back seat door and does the standard police knuckle rap on the window.

“How is everything tonight,” he says, because it is a classic, and he wants to do this right.

He gives them five seconds before he pulls the flash light up, because there are a lot of things that he is not and will never be ready to see.

As he light up the interior of the car two pairs of frightened eyes reflects in the light. He recognizes Stiles deep brown eyes immediately. Derek’s for a second seems to shine almost animal like, but it must be in his imagination because after he blinks they look normal.

It seems to be his lucky night because they are both still semi clothed. Although, Stiles must have pulled his t-shirt on when he knocked because it is inside out and backwards. As he waits for Derek to roll down the window he chooses to ignore the way their legs are still entangled.

“So which one of you two delinquents want to try to explain to me why you are parked in a restricted zone?” He says because he has to break the awkward silence somehow, and brashness hides his actual feelings.

Stiles, of course, opens his mouth to, if he knows his son, try to spin some elaborate lie out of the entire thing. But then nothing comes out. The Sheriff is glad, it seems past time to put all cards on the table and it will be much easier if his son sees no option to talk his way out of this.

And then in the silence that follows the boys look at each other and the Sheriff has to take a deep breath and close his eyes for a second, because he knows that look. He has given that look and received that look, many time.

With his late wife, and only with her.

It hurts in a good way to see that look on his sons face. For a moment it is like seeing his wife again. Laughing at him across the bathroom sink, a pregnancy test grasped firmly between them.

He has been lucky; he always tries to tell himself. He had a lot of happy years and he has a wonderful son. He had love, real love for a while, something not everyone is lucky enough to experience.

It also means that he knows what it means, when his son both gives and receives a look like that.

Now, he has to be the parent.

He knows then what he has to do.

Even if it will be far from easy.

Derek, fricking, Hale of all people.

“Stiles, you are coming with me,” he says, voice stern.

They both start to protest so he puts on his best Sheriff face and stares them down.

“Now Stiles,” had adds and slaps the car roof twice, the noise reverberates in the interior. He has to admit, he is a father after all, that it gives him a great deal of satisfaction to see the Hale kid flinch.

Stiles grabs his hoddie and stumbles out the car on the far side. The Sheriff can hear him muttering under his breath as he makes his way around the car to stand radiating displeasure and a fight to come by his side.

“And you Derek,” he starts and he thinks that finally that might be just a tiny hint of fear in Hales’ eyes. For now he can work with that.

“I will see you on Sunday at five.”

Derek looks around in confusion, dark hair standing unruly on end, as if someone has done their best to muss it up.

“You better not be late,” he adds. He straightens up, thinking that maybe he is enjoying this too much. If he is not careful he will be that guy who shows his guns saying old fashioned things like, “If you ever hurt my son…”

“Eh, yes sir, Sunday?” Derek says and Stiles is practically bouncing up and down from anxiety, trying to figure out what is going on and what he should do about it.

“Yes, five o’clock sharp. I make a decent enough lasagna but me and Stiles will not wait for you if you are late,” he says, schooling his face to seriousness. It wouldn’t do to laugh now; it would totally ruin the effect he is going for.

When he turns around Stiles is standing absolutely still, mouth even open a bit in shock. Then the penny seems to drop and a wide, stupidly pleased grin settles on his face.

He thinks that ok, maybe he should have done this earlier, put the pieces together because seeing his son this happy is the best thing a parent can ever wish for.

“Yes sir, Sunday dinner, five o’clock,” Derek says, and he seems to be grinning as well, “I won’t be late,” he adds in a hurry.

“Yeah well, you better not. Now go home. This is still a no parking zone,” he says, but what he fondly thinks is, stupid kids. As he takes Stiles by the elbow and escorts him to his own car he starts to make a grocery list in his head.

He hasn’t made that lasagna in a while, but he think he can remember the recipe. It was the first thing he ever cooked for Claudia after all.

As they drive home, Stiles is uncharacteristically silent. He seems content to just sit in his seat and hum along to the song on the radio, a soft smile on his face.

The Sheriff sends a fond thought to his wife, hope you can see this, our little boy, growing up.

Maybe he should remember to bring some guns home as well, being a bit old fashioned could surely not hurt?

 

-The End-

**Author's Note:**

> If I could draw I would end this fic with a picture of a really tasty lasagna. Now you just have to use your imagination instead!


End file.
